


ambrosia

by lockis



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst With Multiple Endings, FFXV kinkmeme, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, a good ol can of angst but is that any surprise with a trope like hanahaki, brotherhood era, low key flower symbolism, maybe one day i'll write a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 00:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13423209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockis/pseuds/lockis
Summary: "How long,” he asks, “do you intend to keep this up?”“As long as I can,” he tries to say, but when he tries to push his voice through his lips, a soreness rips through his throat, and he winces.[In which Prompto believes his love is unrequited.]





	1. ambrosia

**Author's Note:**

> fill for [ this](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4398.html?thread=8161070#cmt8161070) prompt

“How long do you intend to keep this up?”

It’s the middle of a Thursday night, when Noct’s fallen fast asleep and Ignis has offered to drive Prompto home. He had remembered a little too late into the night that his parents would be coming back in the morning, and sort of figured the least he could do was be there to greet them after a three-month business trip in Altissia.

Prompto would have otherwise turned Ignis down, insisting it was his fault for still being at Noct’s apartment so late, but as he would have it, Ignis had been cleaning out the fridge and highlighting reports for Noctis to look over in the morning.

_“I’ll already be out driving to the Citadel,” he had said. “It’s not as if your house is terribly out of the way.”_

And all the more Prompto tried to convince Ignis it wasn’t really necessary, the more he tutted about how dangerous even Insomnia could be so late at night and how he could never allow Noct’s best friend to be out alone.

The question, however, comes as a shock.

“I’m sorry?” Says Prompto.

“The yellow blossoms, beside the waste bin.” Ignis stops before an empty intersection, pulling over to the side of the road, and says, “Might I suggest making sure _all_ the evidence is disposed of, should you choose to hide it?” He turns his head to look Prompto in the eye. Prompto looks away immediately.

“That was a joke. Nonetheless, I can’t imagine this being something new; the flowers must have taken root quite a while ago for you to be coughing up entire blossoms- no matter how small they are.”

Prompto- he doesn’t quite know what to say. He’s opened his mouth to speak, but bites down on his lip upon realizing he has no good excuse. Definitely couldn’t argue those were from some flowers Noct had out for show; he was far more into sylleblossoms anyway. Besides, where was the rest of the bouquet? And to pin it on Noct? That would be cause for a concern Prompto couldn’t bear to imagine, much less try and convince Ignis that such a thing was the truth.

Maybe there were better places to dump the latest clump of flowers he coughed up than an near-empty trash can. But maybe there were better times to cough up a shitton of flowers than when Noctis had gone to the bathroom. It was a matter of minutes, and if he tossed in a couple crumpled paper towels, Noctis would surely never notice.

But leave it to Ignis to spot something so small, yet so out of the ordinary.

“Noctis doesn’t know, does he?”

“What makes you think it’s Noct?” Prompto tries.

“I’m no stranger to the way you dance around him.” Ah. “Besides, whether or not he’s the target of your affections, it would be unlike him to not be fretting over a friend. Especially one so dear to him.”

“Please don’t tell him.”

“Only if you tell him yourself.”

“I can’t do that- What if I ruin our friendship?”

“Prompto.”

“He might think it’s weird, and, I dunno? Creepy? How many dudes-”

“More than you would think. Now, Prompto-”

“But it’s still _weird_! I’m like, his only friend- I mean, his only friend outside of the whole Crown-Prince-thing, and-”

“He would hate to lose you.”

But there’s this gnawing in this stomach where Prompto knows Noctis could do so much better. That Prompto could only ever be Noct’s best friend- for however long that lasted, because hell, it had to be out of pure luck that he even managed to make it past acquaintance.

It’s better. In the long run. Or, considering how fast these flowers were smothering his lungs, the short run.

“He’d have to turn me down anyway, wouldn’t he? He’s gonna be King one day, and, he can’t just-” but that’s far too hopeful; to assume they’d even hit a crossroad between his heart and the Lucis Caelum line. To reach even that…

“That’s a matter for the _future,_ Prompto. For now you should be worrying for your health.” Ignis sighs. “Perhaps, if you really do fear Noctis will reject you, you ought to consider having the flowers removed.”

Prompto shifted. He never would.

 

-

 

He’s got it covered, Prompto thinks to himself, so long as he stays by Noct. It’s mysterious, the way his chest settles when it’s just him and Noctis, when it’s just the two of them goofing off. A spare cough crops up here and there, but it’s nothing he can’t cover- colds aren’t entirely uncommon this time of year.

They’re side by side, grinding a few lower-level dungeons in _King’s Knight_ , and, really, everything seems okay. It’s been almost a week and a half since they last hung out, and maybe there were a few times Prompto would’ve sworn he was gonna die.

But Noct’s worth it.

When they’ve finally found that rare weapon with a point-five percent drop rate, the way Noctis laughs in joyful disbelief feels like velvet on Prompto’s ears. He’s caught up on how warmly the feeling buds in his chest and he swears that, honestly? If he died right here, hearing that, well, _wow_ , he really can’t think of a better way to go out.

Of course, he’s still alive, and they’re still playing _King’s Knight_ , and it’s about time they took another shot at that boss they’ve been stuck at since mid-afternoon, so Prompto buckles back down to Eos and gets back to tapping at his phone.

“So how were your parents?,” Noctis asks, between changing his avatar’s gear. That new sword should give this monster hell.

“Huh?” Prompto bounces his eyes up, to Noctis, expectant.

“Well, that’s why you left so suddenly last time, right? They-”

“They couldn’t get home. No worries, I’m used to it by now. Their ferry got delayed, which was prooobably for the better since some executive called up some last minute conferences. Said they should be back by next week.”

“What?” Noctis looks up from his phone, and really, really tries to look Prompto in the eye, but Prompto scoots his eyes back down to the screen. “Well...why don’t you just crash here until they’re back? It has to suck to be home alone all the time.”

“Noct, _you_ live alone, all the time,” Prompto retorts, with just a bit of a laugh. “But I guess it’s not quite the same with Specs dropping in all the time, huh?”

“Hey, I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, of course you can, if you just don’t count cooking, doing laundry-”

“Like you don’t mooch off Iggy for that sometimes.”

“-Alright, you got me there.” And there’s that laugh again, but it’s more hearty, and endearingly mocking all the same.

When the laughter dies down and Noct settles back in the couch, however, is when he asks, “Seriously, why don’t you stay here for at least tonight? It’s pretty late. Besides, it’s, well-” there’s a just a bit of a beat- “it’s been awhile.”

And, just then, when Prompto tries to speak, he worries the world might end. _It’s been awhile_ , not since they were in school and times were much simpler. _It’s been awhile,_ and Prompto feels a warm twinge in his chest. Admittedly, it’s been hard for the two of them to find the time to spend face-to-face between the royal duties Noctis could no longer avoid and the part-time jobs Prompto came to pick up. And–not to forget that–Prompto’s been training at the Citadel, all to join the Crownsguard. It’s nice, to think he’s been missed, even if such a concept seems so foreign. An itch follows, burrowing deep between his ribs, in his throat, and he’s quick to cover his mouth before his feelings come, quite literally, pouring out.

He’s hacking into his hand when Noctis jumps up, and, no, wait, this is where the world falls apart. Prompto wants to try, between his coughs, to say _“It’s fine, don’t worry,”_ and _“Please just sit by me,”_ but he can't catch a large enough breath to form the words.

“Whoa–let me grab–I’ll be right back.” And when Noct’s out of sight Prompto reaches for some tissues, something to keep the blossoms covered, but he’s shocked to find specks of red among them.

Nonetheless, he rides the fit out, and dumps the evidence away, covering it all in a hearty pile of tissues and towels that he hopes Noct will never question.

By the time it’s all and done away with and Prompto’s back to lounging on the couch, Noctis is in front of him, holding out a small, white bottle.

“You might want to get your cough checked, Prom, it-”

“Yeah. Don’t worry.”

Noctis gives him a bit of a look; the sort of one he’d give him back in their high school days when Prompto was clearly way too sick to be in class.

“At _least_ take some of this,” he says, tossing the bottle to Prompto. “It should help.” Noct sits himself back down, that they’re practically cuddling- no, okay, nope. He’s getting all mushy about something that isn't there.

Prompto downs some of the medicine, puts it aside, and quips up an “Aww, what a pal.”

Noctis bites his cheek, and shrugs. “Don’t want you up all night coughing. So, uh, if you want to stay, the couch is all yours.”

“What, you afraid I’m gonna keep you up?”

“Well, yeah, I need _some_ sleep, dude.”

Noctis nudges his side with his elbow and they turn back to their phones, joking and dungeon crawling the night away. They don’t get to sleep, not until one in the morning, and Prompto lays on the couch thinking this is all he needs.

He’s got this covered.

 

-

 

Not two days later, he knows he’s in for hell when he’s hyper-focused on his phone. He’s supposed to be in the middle of training, practicing shooting targets all the way down the range (which, by now, he’s more than covered, and finds annoyance in the frequency it comes up). Instead, he’s zoned in, on the phone in his pocket, growing somewhat anxious with every moment that passes without a buzz.

He shouldn’t worry so much, really–since when was Noct eager to answer a text sooner than ten-thirty, but there’s some tension in knowing it’s been read since last night. No affirmative, no decline, not even a tentative response, and Prompto’s led to worrying he’s come off as clingy as of late.

A voice tries to reason Noct probably got distracted and forgot; but Prompto’s not so easily convinced.

The Glaive overseeing his training taps on his shoulder, tells him to get his head out of whatever.

However he’s too busy worrying, thinking that maybe Noct’s ignoring him, or trying to shirk him off, that Noct’s figured out how horrible and needy Prompto really is. All attempts to stop that train of thought in its tracks and to follow through the logic are fruitless, and Prompto really hates how much of an echo chamber his mind can be for self-deprecation.

He tries to focus, to pull himself away, but it isn’t working, it doesn’t work, because Prompto’s so afraid that–and it’s stupid, that all this can spawn from a text, or lack thereof (which really, really has to be all the more reason for Noct to not like him)–afraid that he’s messed something up, and it has to be those godsawful, stupid, useless feelings he’s culminated.

He gasps inwards, trying to catch the breath he’s missed between the sudden squeeze on his chest. Prompto can feel every last puff of air leave his lungs, but he can’t feel a single breath come in. He falls on his knees, suddenly unaware of what is being said, who’s around him, and what to do as he pounds at his own chest with a balled-up fist.

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, and the world around him’s blurring and he feels petals in his mouth, his throat, his chest, and he’s choking down on them in between gasps and there are hands on his back, and the blossoms keep pouring out, and he just can’t breathe-

 

-

 

Blearily, he wakes up, never being aware he was ever asleep. He finds himself surrounded in white and fluorescent light, tucked loosely into a cot, with Ignis by his side. Typically, Ignis is one to carry a stern face, but Prompto is somehow greeted with something even stiffer.

“The Citadel’s own infirmary,” Ignis explains. However, he doesn’t offer Prompto a beat of silence to peep anything back. “ _Prompto_. It’s been nearly two weeks since we’ve talked. How long,” he asks, “do you intend to keep this up?”

 _“As long as I can,”_ he tries to say, but when he tries to push his voice through his lips, a soreness rips through his throat, and he winces.

Ignis, however, seems to get the message. “The flowers had taken root in your throat. You were lucky enough that the roots have yet to burrow deep into your lungs, but this has gone too far. You’re scaring us, Prompto. You’re scaring _Noct_.”

Prompto is about to ask if, maybe, by now, Noctis knows it isn’t just a cold, and he’s about to hurdle himself into a spiral of doubts and worries, that if he knows, they’ll never be the same, and that maybe he’ll be so disappointed, and upset that his _friend_ , Noct’s _only normal friend_ , would think he would ever-

But it gets worse.

“We had one of our staff...Now, understand, we had to make do with what we had last night, seeing as you could barely breathe, but,” Ignis breathes in, “they had to remove the roots from your throat.”

And he wants to scream. And to cry. Because who the _hell_ has the right to take those from him?

“Ambrosia,” Ignis tries to explain, “They’re quite beautiful, but-”

But Prompto can’t find it in him to care about any explanation.

Because he’s rushing through his memories, trying to find what’s gone, both hoping, yet dreading it’s something sizable enough that he can figure out what he’s lost,

“-and, you should still remember the majority of Noctis, that is until the rest are-”

 

_Removed._

 

He’s plunging through everything he’s ever known since he was ten, plucking through the husk of his past like a vulture, searching for what’s missing–

He knows Noctis can be a little distant,

_But he thinks of afternoons Noct put everything aside, when they’d run off to cheap diners and vibrant arcades_

 

(A cluster of reddened blossoms burst from his mouth, but he can’t care to worry)

 

He knows how Noctis can be a little awkward,

 

_But it’s only because he’s trying to put his heart into every word_

 

(Ignis yells for help, takes Prompto’s hand and squeezes it)

 

He knows Noctis is, by far, the most beautiful person he’s ever seen,

 

 _With eyes blue like, like,_ un _like anything he’s seen before and a cute little mole by his lips that he just wishes he could-_

 

(He feels the stems stretch and reach, and whole new flowers begin to bloom)

 

He knows the way he and Noctis casually lay on top of each other during lazy afternoons,

 

_And there’s nothing more to the way Noct can fall asleep on him,_

 

(They are coughed up all the same, fresh and dainty and soiled with bright red blood)

 

He knows that Noctis spends what is probably too much time with him,

 

_But he’ll give all that time and more back, once he’s a part of the Crownsguard_

 

(And he swears he feels the roots stretching to creep back up his throat)

 

And then,

 

 _And then_ _–_

 

(And then)

 

He realizes he doesn’t know how they met. _When_ they met.

 

There’s a gap. A letter, from Lady Lunafreya, asking him to stand beside Noct. And then. He’s running, working on his body, knowing there would be no way Noctis would ever want to spend time with someone like him, that the least he could do was fix how he looked. There are years of this. And then.

 

 _And then_ _–_

 

He and Noct are chatting, idly in a Crow’s Nest after school, like they’ve already met, like they’re friends, and it dawns on Prompto that he has no recollection of how he got from there to then.

“Iggy.” Prompto chokes, but not on flowers. His voice is hoarse, and his throat is still sore, and his eyes are getting blurry and he can feel his cheeks getting hot. “ _Iggy_.” There’s one hell of an ugly sob, and, oh Gods,

“When did I meet Noct?”

 

-

 

He heads home that evening, after he cries his heart out, after Ignis tries to reason with him, that he needs to talk to Noct or get the rest of the flowers removed. But Prompto isn’t having any of that. He goes home, as soon as he can, probably so he can cry until his eyes are dry.

The house is empty, but is that any surprise. He’s glad, for once, that he’s home alone, so that no one’s kept up by his fit.

He wants to make fun of himself, he really does. He should be grateful that he has any memories of Noct, that he got the chance to make any in the first place, because he’s just so... _Prompto_ . And, now, he’s here crying, because he lost a few out of the thousands of moments with Noctis. But, he argues with himself, any moment with Noctis is worth a thousand moments of _being_ Prompto.

Prompto’s ready to cry himself to the brink, until there’s nothing of him left but a husk consumed by flowers weaving through his flesh, but a knock at the door a few minutes later interrupts that plan early in its tracks. He’s really not in the mood to turn around and cross the five feet between him and the front door to open it, not until the second series of knocks came and went, only to be followed by a voice that sounds so distinctly like Noct.

“Prom? Hey, uh, Prompto? Iggy told me they sent you home.” Knock, knock, knock. “Are you okay?”

He really wants to ignore Noct, spare himself from the embarrassment of opening the door with red cheeks and wet eyes. But he turns.

“Prompto, please. I just want-”

Prompto pushes up a smile. And he opens the door.

“Oh Gods, _finally_ ,” Noctis rushes through his words, and grabs ahold of Prompto’s arms as he comes inside, closing the door with nothing but a kick. “I heard you collapsed yesterday–they wouldn’t let me see you, said I shouldn’t worry, but you were there all night, and I was-” Noctis stops his rambling, repositioning his thoughts all on his own. “They wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, but–I’m glad to see you’re okay.”

“Come on, Noct, you think just a bit of training could take me-”

“Prom, please don’t do this.” Noctis sounds as if he’s seething, and suddenly all the hurt in the world gathers in Prompto’s chest.

“I-”

 

“ _Prompto._ ”

 

Everything, in the small space of the silence between them, begins to collapse. _This_ is where the world ends; where he upsets Noctis without doing anything. He can feel it, the way the air is squeezed out of his lungs when the roots between them throb and itch unlike any fit before, searching for some leverage that Prompto isn’t a fool for loving.

He can’t spill it now, not when he already has Noct worried. The best he can think to do is to push his hands off him and dart for the bathroom, the door slammed behind him, as he curls beside the toilet. Between the quakes through his chest and the blossoms clumping all-together in red tinted toilet water, he can hear a hushed _“Shit, Prom,”_ from the other side of the door.

“I–told you,” Noctis teases, trying to pick up the slack on Prompto’s part, to make something light out of the situation, “Should've gotten that cough checked.” There’s a pause, perhaps a bit of hesitation between a particularly heavy cough, that may or may not sound like choking, before Noct says, “Let’s go tomorrow. I'll take you.”

Prompto practically hacks the rest of his left lung out before he can manage to say, between beaten breaths, “It’s cool–Noct. They had it checked at the Citadel,” that was no lie, however, “even gave me something for it. You don't need-”

“Gods, your voice sounds horrible.” Prompto can hear Noctis sit down, on the other side of the door, as he goes on. “Just. Keep me updated, okay? And relax a bit, please.”

Prompto nods, knowing well Noct can't see it, which is all for the better, seeing as it's a request Prompto can't see himself completing.

 

-

 

Within an hour, the two of them are tangled on the couch, watching some B-list action movie that’s become background noise more than anything. Five times in the past forty minutes, Noctis has mentioned how he should probably be heading back to his apartment, that Ignis was expecting him back by now, and that his dinner was probably cold.

Prompto wonders if this is pity.

Well, was there any other explanation? Not that Prompto could see, not with the way he perceived the world to be.

 

It’s quiet, for awhile.

 

-

 

When morning comes, neither of them had slept much, so they don’t really mind when Noct’s phone goes off at six. He takes the call after the third ring.

“Hey,” says Noctis. From the other side of the line, while unintelligible to his ear, Prompto can hear a distinctive accent to the voice. “Huh? Oh, I’ve been at Prom’s place. Guess I forgot to message you.” Noctis pauses, waiting for the voice on the line to finish his turn. “He’s...you want to talk to him yourself? He’s right here, so–oh, okay.”

Prompto shrinks, a bit, in his seat.

“His cough is still ugly, and he’s been wheezing a bit, but, he’s fine, right? What? Well, yeah we’ve been talking, but–he said they gave him something at the Citadel, and–uh. Okay.” He waits for the line to go dead before locking his phone and tossing it in his lap, looking over to Prompto.

“Specs said he needed me to head home to read a report from some meeting yesterday. But–I’ll drop by later, okay? Well, Iggy said he was gonna stop by, too, so.” There’s an awkward, empty beat, where Noctis cuts himself off and Prompto doesn’t know what to say. He knows what’s coming, that Ignis will just chastise him all over again, like yesterday, and before, like Prompto doesn’t understand what he’s going through.

Prompto sighs, and nods. “Cool. I’ll be here.” Not like he had anywhere to be; Ignis called off his training indefinitely, and it’s not like he had a shift at the photo-supply store until the day after the next.

“Take care of yourself, alright?” Says Noctis as he heads out, and, boy, if only it were as easy as to say it.

 

-

 

Ignis is at Prompto’s door, just a few of minutes before noon. He has this look on his face that Prompto can’t decipher (he figures it’s somewhere between disappointment and concern), and a flask in his hand.

“If I recall, you seemed to enjoy that green curry soup I made some time ago.” Ignis lets himself in and sets the flask onto the counter, before turning to look at Prompto. “I assumed this might go down easier than anything solid.”

Prompto nods. “Thanks, Iggy.” He finds he doesn’t have much to say, but is that any surprise when the news from yesterday doesn’t bode too well with him.

“Prompto–let’s cut to the chase,” and at least he’s honest about it. “You don’t have much time. Please, talk with Noctis. None of us want to see you fade away. Especially Noct. He-”

“He wouldn’t-”

“Don’t interrupt.” The bark stings, perhaps more than any bite would. But he knows where it’s coming from, he _knows_ that it’s concern, but all he can feel is the hidden, cold anger in the tone. “Whether he loves you or not, he deserves to know what’s happening to you. Don’t let it come as a shock to him. If you will not do it for yourself, please, think of Noct. He would hate to wake up one day, to hear you’ve forgotten him, or, that you’ve died, Prompto. All while it is something that could be prevented.”

“So _please_ ,” Ignis finishes, trying to look Prompto in the eye, but he’s doing all he can to avoid it. “He needs you, more than you would think.”

And he steeps in the silence, in the monologue he’s been hit with. Leave it to Ignis to be logical, but...for Prompto, he’s emotional. Ruled by feelings ever-over thought. So it’s hard. To look reason in the eye, and trust it without a doubt. To push that gut feeling aside, and ride on the wave of uncertainty that rationale brings.

“He doesn’t deserve to think it’s his fault,” Prompto says.

“ _You_ don’t deserve to lose everything when you’ve already given him so much,” Ignis replies.

 

-

 

He frets and fidgets throughout the day.

Ignis stays beside him, aside from having run to his car to grab some folders and papers to shuffle through, insisting it would be unwise to leave Prompto alone. Admittedly, he’s probably right, seeing as the handfuls of yellow blossoms were now coming out in clumps and chains so large Prompto almost-chokes every time. The experience is unpleasant, but it’s nothing new, and comparatively better than the time he hacks up half a stem with leaves and flowers all attached halfway through the afternoon.

He’s stressed, and reads like a book left open under a neon sign, even if Ignis is nose-deep into a report on Nif activity.

“It will be fine,” he says. “We’ll see to it that you’ll survive, whatever it means.”

“But what if he doesn’t like me?” Prompto asks, as if the matter isn’t life or death, but instead a trifle concern in a high school drama. “I don’t want to just, have to _forget_ him-”

“But we won’t just have you die–We’ve been over this. How many times now?”

“Feels like a thousand.”

“Then let’s leave it at a thousand and one.”

Prompto nods and downs a gulp of soup.

 

-

 

By late afternoon, Noctis returns and Ignis lets him in, and steps into another room.

“I’ll leave you two to...figure things out. If you need me, I’ll be here,” he says, and Noct seems rather confused by this, like he’s missing out on some big picture, which, really, he is.

Nonetheless, he goes to sit by Prompto on the couch, and pulls his phone out.

“I was hoping that, well, you would’ve kept me updated. Since, you know-”

“Oh. Sorry, I thought you would’ve been busy.”

“Well, _yeah_ , but, what kind of friend would I be if you were dying and I didn’t know?”

“Yeah. That’d be–” _well_ – “I’m doing fine, I told you it’d take more than you’d think to take me out.”

“Oh yeah? Well, your voice still sounds like shit. You must be pretty sick if whatever the Citadel doctors gave you can’t fix that by now.”

“Well. I’m doing all I can.”

“Huh.”

Prompto pulls his own phone out, and the two of them, having caught on to the same thought, pull up _King’s Knight_ for some light dungeon crawling. They pass through a few floors, slay every enemy, and it’s all rather fast since they’re just searching for gold in some dungeon they cleared last month. It’s casual, just the two of them, spending the time together like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t feel like Prompto’s chest is about to burst open with flowers.

 

“So, Noct,” says Prompto, “you remember when we met?”

“Which time? Or are you still pretending that elementary school didn’t happen?”

_Well, given the circumstances,_

“Uh? How about the time I actually worked up the nerve to talk to you?”

“You still talked to me the first time, Prom.” 

_Yeah, but,_

“It hardly counts.”

_Especially when its forgotten._

“Alright, fine. What about it?”

“Oh. Nothing really. It’s just been awhile, that’s all.”

“Seriously?” Noct locks his phone, and tucks it in his pocket. “I still kinda wish you talked to me again sooner. It’s been awhile since elementary. High school? That was practically two days ago.”

“Well, yeah–”

 

“I know you’re trying to avoid something.”

 

Prompto freezes. While Noct’s bluntness is often expected and can be handled with understanding, it’s hard, at times, to receive. Prompto stammers, because, dammit, he’s been caught, and he was really hoping to bring this up on his own terms but–

“Prom, can we just talk about it? I…’m kinda worried.”

Talking about it, that’s not so hard. Well, really, it is, but maybe if he pretends it isn’t, says it isn’t, the emotional impact of his wording won’t strike both him and Noct so hard. He can feel his insides unravel, as he thinks a million thoughts per second, to think the logical path through. He’s spent so much time worrying, and so little of it preparing that, _wow_ , he really doesn’t know where to start, and when he tries to weave his words, that fall apart in his mouth. The feeling is, so-oh thankfully, multiplied by the flower riving inside him, and he has to hold back a horrendous cough to keep his thoughts going.

Blunt. Noct was always blunt. Maybe, if just this once–

“I love you.”

“What?”

Fuck.

Screw all the other times. This is where it ends. Prompto can’t even keep track of how fast he falls through the murk in his mind. That was wrong–to put it like _that_ was wrong. It’s so basic, so surface, Gods, it probably sounds so _fake_ . _“I love you”?_ **_“I love you”?_ ** It’s cheesy, it’s hopeless, how could Prompto have ever let himself be talked into doing this, this is, by far, the worst series of events in his lifetime.

He wants to die on the spot, which, probably, isn’t too far from what he gets as body-wracking coughs erupt through him, sending flowers, and leaves, and the little beads of blood they’re tainted with straight out of his lips. There’s whole tremors through his body, and they just won’t stop, he keeps coughing and hacking and pouring all his feelings out, all awhile he feels the sheer _terror_ from Noct’s expression seep through the room.

“I mean–it’s just–I–” Prompto gasps, coughs, and opens up again, “I just? It’s been for awhile–and I mean–” he hacks and chokes on blossoms that he has to scoop out of his mouth. “You’re really fantastic–I just–don’t know, I can’t really–”

“Prom. Oh Gods, _Prom._ ”

Prompto feels his stomach sink further, as if it were even possible, when he hears the crack in Noctis’s voice, it’s sad, it’s foreign, _it’s exactly what pity sound like_ , and it adds a myriad of emotion to the maelstrom of feelings he was already vomiting. He hears a door swing open, but it sounds so distant compared to where he and Noct are on the couch, where they end, where the world falls apart.

Noct does, presumably, the only thing he can think of, and grabs ahold of Prompto, one hand on his arm and another on his back, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades (best he can with the way Prompto shakes with his coughs), as Ignis, still distant, says something about _feelings_ , which, in this moment, feels painfully ironic.

“Prom?” Noct asks, as if making sure Prompto can hear, as if he _isn’t_ the only thing Prompto can strain himself to hear, “I–Prom, I love you too–I thought–”

“Please-” Prom gasps, “ _don’t_ ”

“I? What do you–”

“You don’t–have–” the words are broken between coughs and gasps, and Noct spares a moment, to look away from Prom and over to Ignis, who, to his slightest relief, is preoccupied with phone calls that sound to be of a medical caliber.

“You don’t–need to lie.”

Noct freezes. Leave it to Prompto, dammit, to get it all wrong, to tangle himself in subtleties and nuances that were never there. Noct stammers, because, hell, if he doesn’t think fast, he could screw it all up.

It’s terrifying. In half of a sentence, a fraction of a second, he could ruin, or lose, everything with the one only person in his whole world that’s _normal_. The only person in his life that is a world in itself.

He breathes in, trying to force his mind to race despite everything around him. He opens his mouth, and–


	2. anemone [ending 1]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noct tries.

he tries.

“Prompto, I’m not–I love you too.”

“Noct, _please_.” There’s no way to go about it, they way the pain seethes through Prom’s words cannot be missed. At this point, it sounds as if he’s just hissing through his teeth with what little air he has left from the buds blocking his lungs. And Noct’s scared.

“Prom, I swear. C’mon, Prom, please, I love you.”

“You–really–don’t…”

“Then what can I do? Just let me prove to you–”

“I _get_ it.”

Noct shakes his head. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re just–” Prom’s interrupted, a violent fit, somehow more violent than before, leaves him unable to speak as he chokes on what Noct can only assume to be a full flower; stem and leaves and buds and all. He watches, horrifically, as Prom has to reach in and tug it out, all just to achieve a few words. He winces, then gasps, airway renewed slightly, for now, as he finishes. “You’re just saying–that. It’s fine.”

“No, Prom, it isn’t!” He shouts it out, the control on his feelings lost as he looks between Prom and Ignis, now waiting at the door, as anxious as himself, that help won’t come in time. “ _I love you,_ ” he seethes.

“It’s–not your fault.”

“ _Stop it_.”

“I promise.”

“I said _stop it._ ”

And, he does. Except, the coughing and hacking never stops, and the frequent gasps become empty, unable to pull air in. Noct’s shaking, he can’t quite feel his heart, because he’s all too afraid to soak in whatever it’s feeling. He grabs one of Prom’s hands, holding it, emptily, in both hands, and squeezes. There’s an ugly noise, a wheeze of sorts, where Noctis can only assume Prom’s airway cleared, if only for a second, and the air rushed in.

It hurts, even if he can’t feel it, but it hurts so much. He’s left, only to imagine the mechanics inside. How the roots must twist in his flesh and tear at his ribs, how it must feel for _life_ and love to fill his lungs instead of air.

And it isn’t beautiful.

There’s nothing poetic to it. His best friend _(could-have-been-boyfriend)_ is suffocating on feelings that leads Noct to hate himself for never noticing. That went unchecked and developed into something gnawing through him inside to out. And,

“I’m sorry.” It’s simple. “I should’ve noticed.”

But the words aren’t clean. They’re chopped and minced, with all the finesse of a behemoth, as Noct, too, begins to choke, but only on his words. He’s quaking now, and the world’s blurred beyond compare, until he blinks and it all flows down. It’s an ugly cry, that only gets worse once Prom goes limp.

It takes a moment, but only a moment, and Noctis drops Prom’s hand and makes quick work to pry his mouth open.

Inside is a mess; there are blossoms up to the tip of his tongue, as if the pear-sized clumps on the floor weren’t enough.

Noct pries through them, curving two fingers to scoop the golden blossoms out, but there’s so many, and they tangle around his fingers, there’s stems sprouting up so he pulls those out without a thought to if it hurts, because that doesn’t matter if Prom can’t breathe. So he tears and scoops despite the fact they grow back in mere seconds, until a somber Ignis speaks.

“Noctis.” He doesn’t look up. “That’s more than–” and for once, Ignis stammers, “I don’t believe it’s working.”

“But–he can’t–”

Ignis is silent, looking to the ground between his feet.

“He’ll be fine–right?”

And Ignis sighs. “Let’s hope.”

 

-

 

By the time paramedics are there, it feels as if an eternity has passed in a matter of seconds. Noctis is cradling Prom, ear pressed to his chest, keeping track of the slowing heartbeat. He’d considered magic but–

 

_“Only if you’re certain,” said Ignis, “You don’t want to put too much strain on his system.”_

 

And Noct feels like shit. He sits and cries, with Prompto limp in his arms, and Noct’s doing fuck-all, yet everything he can. And, in a moment, Prom’s pried from his arms and rushed within white walls and surrounded by white uniforms, surrounded by people that whisper of tearing him open and plucking his love away.

He’s led, by Ignis, to follow. But he’s a step behind.

  
“Oh Gods,” cries Noctis, “I _killed_ him.”


	3. myosotis [ending 2]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> help arrives in time.

when he comes to, he doesn’t know why. Prompto is surrounded by white and curtains and sterile, stagnants scents that make his nose scrunch up and send chills through his skin. He tries to shuffle, in the bed he’s been laid onto, but a soreness wracks through him from his chest to his throat, and he feels a cord prodded into his arm. He’s wary of it, and checks to make sure he hasn’t disturbed the needle in his skin, which, fortunately enough, is kept steady with white tape.

“Ah.”   
  
Prompto looks up, and, he wonders how he missed Ignis, sitting by the windowsill and setting down papers. 

“Good to see you awake. You had us worried, but…” Ignis trails off, in a way Prompto’s come to know to be his way of omitting information at the very last second. “It’s all fine now.”

Prompto finds himself at a bit of a loss; Ignis is rarely one for vagueness. “What happened?”

Ignis breathes out heavily, and his eyes dart to his closed hands, folded in his lap. “I found you collapsed yesterday, near your home. I got the clearance to bring you to the Citadel doctors and, now, here we are.” He pulls a square cloth from a pocket, takes his glasses in hand, cleaning them with distrait.

“What was-”   
  
“We can explain in time, but for now you should rest.”

And, without further discussion, Ignis leaves Prompto to his own devices as he slides his glasses back on and takes the papers back up. 

So Prompto wracks his own mind.

It feels hazy, the past few weeks. The fog trickles into last month, and he wonders whatever it could mean. He hopes it’s only temporary. He’s twiddling his thumbs, thinking through the string of memories he has, and faintly remembers an awful cough. For a moment, he wonders, why he would ever let it go unchecked. But once that moment passes, he feels as if he knows  _ (when really, he doesn’t). _

He taps a rhythm out on his legs, to fill the stiff air as he lets his eyes bounce around the room.

“So, Iggy,” he starts, “how’d you even get clearance for me to be treated here?”

“It’s not so difficult.” Ignis puts the papers back down, and regards Prompto with an eyebrow raised, but a knowing look. “I do work here, after all.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He pauses. Something about the fact seems to be missing, something that should be obvious. “You work for the King, right?”

“Ah, no, not quite,” he says, sadly.

 

-

 

The time passes, and Ignis excuses himself to attend to some meeting. He leaves Prompto with the insurance that he’s in good hands, but it barely lifts the weight off his shoulders.

He’s come to discover that, not only the past month, but the past nine years feel off and murky; since he received that letter from Lady Lunafreya. It’s odd, as if he has no motivation in life, and he wonders even now just what he was working up to. Photography sounds about right, and he’s even got that job at the photo-supply store, but it’s denoted in his mind as only a hobby. Only a passtime. 

He runs, he trains, he’s good with guns, but all for what? He figures, faintly, that he’s been trying to join the Kingsglaive, so he can work beside Ignis and Gladio. He settles, that that sounds just about right, and can’t ponder it much deeper before he hears the door slide open.

And there stands a boy with black hair.

“Whoa, uh. Hey there, you got the wrong room?”

The boy flinches as he snaps his focus from closing the door to Prompto, and shakes his head.    
  
“I–Just heard there was someone here,” and Prompto can’t help but think the crack in the boy’s voice makes it sound as if he’s lying. “I thought I’d visit. I know being stuck in one of these rooms can kinda suck.” There's a pack, hanging from one of his shoulders, which he slips off and stows by his feet when he sits where Ignis once was.

His leg bounces in place for a brief moment, when he looks out the window and fidgets in his seat. Prompto stares at the boy and furrows his brow. He isn’t sure what’s wrong.

He takes a moment, a moment of hesitation, to follow the boy’s gaze and look out the window, upon the city.

“It’s really a great view.”

“Yeah,” agrees Prompto.

The boy nods, opens his mouth, but then bites down on his lip. He turns his head, his gaze, over to Prompto.

“We’ll have to go out on the roof sometime. It’d make a nice shot.”

And perhaps the look of confusion Prompto feels twisting his face is all-too evident, because the black haired boy stammers and explains.

“Iggy,” the name uncomfortable and forced out of his lips, “told me you like photography. He, uhm, actually asked me to bring you this.” He ducks down to his bag, and shuffles through pockets and procures a camera–Prompto’s camera. He stands up to set it by the bedside and lingers, almost expectant of something more.

“You know Ignis?” And the boy nods.

“Yeah,” and his voice cracks, halfway through the word. 

And Prompto feels as if he should understand why, but the reason is fogged and distant like a wind of déja vu. So he just nods, at a loss. 

 

And then it’s silent. 

 

The boy sits down again, and stares at the hands folded in his own lap. He stares at them as if they held the secrets to life. And his leg bounces idly, once or twice before brief beats.

Prompto realizes, he thinks, that the boy is scared. He looks almost small in the seat, which seems rather impossible with something hardly larger than the sort of plastic chairs found within a classroom. 

It's awkward. Incredibly awkward. It's the sort of silence that falls between strangers, the kind that thrives when no one knows what to say. The sort of silence that kills a conversation before it starts.

 

-

 

The boy returns the next day, and the day after that. Ignis comes by as well, but he leaves as soon as the boy with black hair enters. 

They spend both days chattering idly, and playing Prompto’s games. The conversation never goes far, but they’ve cleared five dungeons in two days, which is almost a new record for him. 

He finds, in the moments he tries to carry some sort of exchange through, that there are questions that the boy would rather not answer.

He thinks it odd, the sudden awkwardness apparent everywhere, the sudden mysteries that are cropping up. The nurses explain he had a surgery, but never why he needed it. Ignis explains that it was the King’s magic that healed him so fast, but never why he deserved it. The boy explains he’s glad to see Prompto doing so well, but never why there are two hundred forty-seven selfies of him and Prompto saved to his camera. 

 

-

 

By the fourth night, after he's moved from the infirmary to a living quarters within the Citadel, he learns the boy’s name. Prompto scratches the back of his mind, searching for where he knows the name. And his struggle must be evident, because he’s told not to worry about it. 

But when Noctis turns back to their game, Prompto can’t oblige. 

“Have we met? Before?” He's surprised with how fast they’ve come to get along, and really, it's the only way Prompto can explain the way he acts around him. The way he knows, the way there’s hundreds of photos of him, the way their  _ King’s Knight _ accounts were already linked as friends. Though, well, that could just be coincidence.

“What?” says Noct, “What do you mean?” And the way his eyes are wide when he looks up from the screen, it's something that pinches Prompto’s heart.

“I mean- well, there’s-” an aching feeling, a friendship Prompto isn’t in on, and a thousand photos that could explain it all, but- “I just thought-”

“We’ve met,” Noctis finishes. “Twice, actually.”

“Oh.”

He thinks Noctis looks as though he’s going to continue, but he looks stuck on his words. He can almost see the thought process, on where he’s trying to line the story up. Prompto figures it must be a rather long one, because Noct is so hung up on where to go, where to start, but he finds himself shocked when it isn't a story he receives.

“I’m really sorry. Prom, I- I should've talked to you sooner. You- I should've  _ noticed _ .”

“I don't-”

“It’s my fault.” Noct looks at him, the sternest he’s seen him in the few days he’s known him, and yet despite his resolve, his eyes are welling up and cheeks are looking red. “You always give everything your all, but I...I waited  _ years _ for you to talk to me. I always thought- I’m, just, I’m no good at this. I’ve  _ waited _ years for you to talk to me. If I just talked to you sooner-” he shakes his head “-we’d have been together sooner. Maybe you wouldn't have thought I was lying, and-” Noctis chokes on a sob, the noise bursting from his throat in a broken tone before devolving into a cough. He has to hold his breath to stop himself.

Prompto doesn't know what to think. The words are loose strings, tying together vaguely, and they don't quite add up. 

“Noct, buddy, you need-”

“I should have  _ noticed _ . You almost died because of me Prom, ‘cause you didn't think that-” Noctis cries, wailing his heart out, “I could’ve told you sooner, and maybe- maybe you would’ve believed me.”

“About  _ what _ ?”

Noctis gasps in, his mouth open to speak, when he’s suddenly wracked with heavy coughs. He bends over just a bit, and Prompto is by his side in a second, hands on his shoulders. 

Noct can’t find rest, not between two coughs as they pound at his chest one after another, and he begins to feel something caught in his throat. He tries to calm himself again, to ground himself with Prompto there to help him, but for some reason it only makes the case all the more worse.

He heaves, nearly coughing up a lung, clinging to Prompto as his regrets catch up with him to encircle his mind, force him to realize that, so long as Prompto has no memory of Noct, then, really, what good is his love.

And when that thought hits him,

 

a soft-blue petal falls between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh well, i've officially posted all that i've written before hand, and, while i am working on a third HAPPY ending, i'm at a bit of a wall at the moment and am taking my time to figure it out :V   
> in the mean time however, there are other works i'm currently writing, so let's hope to seeing something soon!
> 
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> aha weellp, this is technically my second fic for the fandom, and hopefully more will come.  
> at the time of writing this, i've got the first two endings done, and while i DO have an intention of a third, wholly happy ending, i've spent the past month staring at my start, wondering how to do it  
> (guess i just can't let my boys be happy ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)
> 
> anyhoo. hmu on tumblr @ megidoremi


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